


Of Books and Feathers

by Saiph_ire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Divergence, Episode 6, I looked at the bench scene and thought, and here we are, what if they didn't switch back right away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 10:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saiph_ire/pseuds/Saiph_ire
Summary: In which worries are laid to rest.





	Of Books and Feathers

“So, swap back?”

Aziraphale hesitates. He looks down at the proffered hand, and quietly comes to a decision. “Can we… go somewhere a bit more private? Please.”

Crowley shifts, and it’s still off-putting, his frown drawn on Aziraphale’s own corporation. He’s confused, but there’s a hint of something else, something Aziraphale can’t name, something in those eyes that he usually doesn’t get to see. “Yours or mine?”

“The bookshop. So, yours! Yes, yours.” Aziraphale gets up, swiftly, and reaches to tug at a nonexistent waistcoat before remembering himself. He remembers to get back into Crowley’s swagger, walking a few steps before turning back. “Sorry, it’s just- You can never be too careful.” 

He tries for a smirk and it falls short, he can tell. He’s been waiting, waiting for Crowley to sit down on the other side of this bench, his thoughts all going a mile a minute, what went wrong flashing through his head, and it’s ruining his act.

Crowley stands, and they walk in silence to the shop.

As soon as the door closes, Aziraphale snaps, and the blinds all fall. The noise (and the darkness; Crowley’s sunglasses are still on his nose, but he’s scared to take them off) makes Aziraphale flinch, and he runs his hands over one of the books (the unburnt, smooth, soft cover, the crisp pages, all his, all still here) by the door to soothe his nerves. 

Crowley’s waiting, hand outstretched again, but Aziraphale needs to see this, just before, just in case.

He shakingly grabs the book (It’s  _ The Great Gatsby _ , he realizes, and that brings him some more comfort) and breathes out. “Can I see your- your wings?”

Crowley freezes, understandably. It’s a pretty odd question, especially between the two of them. In most ethereal circles, it's taboo. There’s only been two times the two of them have actively shown their wings to each other: one of them was Eden, and the other was, well, yesterday. But Aziraphale needs to see, and that requires bluntness. 

Crowley slowly thaws into a guarded stance. “Why.”

“Please.” The silence ticks by. Aziraphale’s hands start to hurt from clutching onto the book for dear life. “Um, you know what, let’s just, just switch back, right now? I shouldn’t be so caught up on a- a- a hypothetical, it’s fine, we should-“

Crowley tilts his head. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Aziraphale releases a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, takes Crowley’s jacket off, and shakes out his wings. The white (still, still, still white) feathers mixing with Crowley’s usual black attire makes something in his chest ache, a little lake of “what if’s” draining through his heart. He knows he shouldn’t have held onto that… not hope, honestly (he doesn’t want that for Crowley, he doesn’t want Heaven for anyone) but the want for one side, for more time, for safety, trumps logic.

Crowley shifts closer, and gently, gently reaches out. It’s Aziraphale’s turn to freeze.  _ This  _ was something neither of them had done before, and something no angel  _ or  _ demon would ever let happen (Demons are always afraid of someone trying to attack them, and angels simply don’t want to be one-up’ed). Sure, shielding Crowley from the rain all that time ago had brought his feathers close, but they definitely hadn’t been in touching distance. 

Aziraphale had been scared then. He’s still scared now, only for a different reason, but he doesn’t pull away. Soft fingers touch smooth feathers, and Aziraphale closes his eyes and sighs into it. It’s comforting in a way he wasn’t expecting, like a long bath soothing away tension. His wings spread, slowly, as Crowley delicately traces out a primary. 

Aziraphale opens his eyes again when he hears a noise, small and hurt, that he recognizes from bad nights spent worrying. He sees pain written across his own face (and that hurts, knowing who’s behind it), and he almost has time to say that he’s sorry before it’s smoothed back into careful neutrality. 

“Well then,” says Crowley, pulling back with something hard tinting his voice. He takes off Aziraphale’s trench coat and spreads out his own wings, careful of the towers of nearby books.

Aziraphale’s glad for Crowley’s sunglasses for once; it’s easier to be brave behind a mask. He’s been afraid of Falling ever since the beginning, and that fear only grew as the centuries went on. Heaven may be afraid of him now, may rather try to forget about him than pass judgement, but he’s still terrified. He thought it would help, facing his fears and all that, but it's hard to look at it at all. Black wings instead of white, curled up behind him. 

Aziraphale has worried. His late nights spent reading have been interrupted at points, wondering: what would be the outcome? If he Fell (or, at some low points,  _ when _ he Fell), what would happen to him? What would happen to Crowley? What would happen when the Enemy lost his Adversary? Would Aziraphale just never see him again? Would Crowley be alone? Would Crowley try to find him? 

Would Crowley even care?

That last one always hit him hard. Of course Crowley would care, he’d think to try to reassure himself, Crowley always cares. Then Aziraphale would go back to reading, until the little thought poking at the back of his mind would make him read the same paragraph one too many times and he’d have to get up and do something else. He always found himself being a little too short with his customers for the next few days, which only brought up the Falling issue in his mind over again every time he’d snap. Of course, Aziraphale’s idea of snapping was being extraordinarily passive aggressive to someone trying to buy one of his books, but that didn’t change the thoughts.

There’s always a difference between knowing something and hearing someone explicitly say it.

“Crowley,” he starts, and his voice does something funny, catching in the middle. Crowley looks up at him. “If I were to… If Heaven were to make me Fall-“

“They wouldn’t  _ dare _ -”

“ _ If _ they did, you’d stay with me, yes?”

Crowley makes one of his sounds, and it’s almost funny with Aziraphale’s vocal chords. “‘Course I would, angel. Why the- Why would you even start to think I wouldn’t?”

“I guess, sometimes, I can be so clever and so, so stupid at the same time.” Aziraphale smiles, warmed. The view isn’t so harsh anymore. They’re on one side now, aren’t they? They’re safe for a little while, and the time he’s always wanted is here for the taking. Crowley cares. Aziraphale smiles wider.  _ Crowley cares. _

Crowley barks out a laugh, and shakes his head. “Anything else you wanted to do before we-?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, and reaches out his hand. Crowley takes it.


End file.
